


through those blind eyes he sees.

by リリス - riris (arurun)



Series: in memory of the ones that live again. [5]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Blind Character, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reincarnation, Time Travel, Young Kakashi, blind ninja, kakashi is protective of his clumsy neighbour, oc returns in time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2020-05-31 03:36:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 16,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19417684
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arurun/pseuds/%E3%83%AA%E3%83%AA%E3%82%B9%20-%20riris
Summary: Itsuki was a Konoha ANBU that faced the Fourth Great Shinobi War and perished on the battlefield, only to find himself back in the past, blind, and apparently today his tiny self got a little clumsy and decided to die. Needless to say his neighbour Kakashi was not happy about the noise.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone! This is my first attempt at a Naruto Fanfic so oops I apologize in advance for any plot-related mistakes, fact misconceptions, and OOCs. This story features an OC travelling back into time, right around the time before Kakashi becomes a Jounin. This story is basically me releasing angst potential while exploring the concept of a Blind Shinobi. If you decide to read it, thank you and I hope you'll enjoy this! I'd really appreciate some feedback of any form ♥️

“Anko!”

Violet hair is too far away to hear him, so he brings himself to her instead. He calls her again, but she’s charging so much faster.

Clutching the kunai and the scroll to his chest, his arm hangs limply at his side. It’s broken, so he tries not to move it about. His feet staggers, slips over some dead body’s arm, and he collapses. His face skids across the rough soil, but he can’t pick himself up.

 _Fuck,_ he swears to himself, _fuck, not now._

He tries to blink. He closes his eyes, and when he opens them everything is still a blur. Everything is still on fire, everything is still dark and swirly and-

And somehow, he _knows_ he doesn’t have long enough.

His limbs are weak and limp by his side, and a certain tremble overtakes everything in his senses as he tries not to cry because why was the fear of death taking him now?

It didn’t matter.

“Ank-” his voice breaks, and he doesn’t manage more than a hoarse whisper, “Anko--”

He struggles. Clawing across the ground and trying to lift his head-- something swishes inside his head at the movement, and with a pathetic whimper he falters, flattens, and tries again. A heavy sting by his right temple, definitely a head injury, made it so much harder.

“Itsuki?!” another voice was by his side now.

His eyes squeeze shut as a hand rests on the middle of his back.

It’s like a painful assurance, he realizes-- and the warm chakra signature radiating off the man-- somehow, it makes him realize that his own was spiking so weakly and barely holding together. 

“Gen...ma,” he chokes out, hand resting on the hem of his broken arm, weakly turning around. 

“Fuck-” the man bites back more words as he reaches down, pressing a hand at a wound in Itsuki’s side, though it really wasn’t working, “we need to get you back to the Medics! Don’t talk!”

A hand reaches up weakly, and Itsuki grasps at Genma’s flak jacket, dragging his body up (was it always this heavy?) until it was meagerly upright.

He coughs. Hacking up a whole fistful of blood that reminded him of Hayate’s little bouts-- when that man was still alive, so many years back. Damn, had it really been so long since Hayate died? He chuckles at the thought.

“Why… are you laughing? Itsuki?”

Genma’s gaze, so distressed, sends Itsuki reeling back with a wave of guilt. He barely realizes he’s leaning heavily into the man’s chest, supported in the back with a steady arm and looked over so tenderly-- haha, Raidou would’ve been jealous.

His hands shake uncontrollably as he raised the scroll in his hand, and presses it into Genma’s chest.

“Get this to Anko,” he musters up the words, no explanation needed.

Just a request, a simple command-- his voice breaking out in more of a plea than of the authority he boasted.

He forces out a smile, and manages a dry chuckle.

“Win this war,” his voice is barely a whisper now, “...okay?”

He doesn’t hear Genma respond. His eyes don’t close, and he doesn’t hear anything else. 

His body stills, and only Genma hears his end of the promise.

-

He opens his eyes.

No, they were never closed. But he tries anyways, blinking hard, rubbing them over for a while before deciding that it was much too dark out to see anything.

He rubs his fingers over his palm, and a faintly warm, slightly sticky and slippery sensation tells him he’s bleeding and the blood is fairly fresh.

 _But something’s strange_ . His hand, even through whatever slick he’s feeling, is far too _smooth_. Where had that scar at the base of his pinky gone? Last he’s known it was scarred far too badly to feel this flat over his skin.

The dull throbbing in his head spikes, and he hisses, moaning in pain. At all cost, he should be getting to the medics soon. He thought it was a minor wound, but maybe he’d left it far too long and there was too much blood lost. But that didn’t explain why he now felt pain in the top, back, and sides of his head, rather than just the one cut he remembers receiving.

Then something else made no more sense. Wasn’t… _Genma_ , with him? It was incredulous to think Genma would leave him here without sending him to a medic.

It all comes back to him.

He doesn’t remember when he stopped breathing, but he remembered the second his chakra reserves ran dry, and the resignation he breathed out as his arms fell limp at his sides.

Now, his chakra’s stable. Weak, untamed, but stable. Rejuvenated, somehow-- why? Wasn’t his arm broken? He couldn’t feel even the remnant pangs of pain from the shattered bone--

He hears a door slam open as someone breaks in-- _break in? Wasn’t he in the middle of a battlefield?_ He feels around and brushes across something cold and sharp-- _glass? Metal?_

_Wasn’t he surrounded by dead bodies just a second ago?_

Footsteps are loud and frantic and he sucks in a breath, shrinking back in fear and panic, because _crap, someone’s closing in!_ An enemy? 

He scrambled around. Suddenly, his belt is gone. His vest, too. He doesn’t have a single kunai on hand, not even the shuriken he bound to the middle of his sleeve as a hidden emergency weapon. His swords-- where were his swords? 

_No_ , his gloves-- his gloves were gone too.

A sharp clatter resounds as something falls, sounding oddly like plastic. Beside him, a strange structure-- a vertical stretch with two flat bars-- a… cart? A carriage? No, was this a shelf? His hand makes its way across a row of things further in-- feeling a tangy rub of leather-- pouches? No, books? A cup-shaped object fit right into his hand-- a trophy?

“Itsuki!”

He jumps. He can’t tell where the sound is coming from. Everything is still too dark and suddenly a spiking orb of someone’s chakra flares enough for him to sense it.

It’s distressed.

And it’s close.

“Itsuki, you-- hell, what happened here?”

It’s a voice he doesn’t think he recognizes. It’s not Genma. Not Anko-- this was a high voice, but not a girl’s-- was this a child’s voice? A young boy?

A hand lands on his shoulder, and he jerks it away, almost too sharply shooting back.

He scrambles around beside him. Where were his weapons? Where were his weapons? Was he captured? Was he taken by the enemy and ensnared for torture-- no, how did the boy know his name? Itsuki was confident he had no Genin acquaintances.

“Wh-” he winces at his own tone, so scared, so much more scared than he wanted to make it sound-- it sounded a little high. Was he so sluggish he couldn’t even form his serious tone?

He chokes out the words, raising his hands defensively at his own face, looking around so desperately because why isn’t the light coming back yet? Why aren’t his eyes getting used to the darkness yet because for all he knew, he was surrounded and alone and--

“Who’s there?” 

When he manages to choke it out of his throat, he freezes.

Because _no_ , it wasn’t his lack of consciousness nor the injuries nor anything else for that matter-- _this was definitely his voice_ \-- and to his utmost horror, he sounded like a _kid_.


	2. Chapter 2

The first thing Kakashi hears is a loud, glass-like shatter coming from the house next door. He right about drops the bowl on the table (Minato-sensei shrieked, something about “the Miso Soup! It’s spilling! Ow! I burned my hand”) and the boy flips the stove off, making a hard dash toward the front door.

There was only one boy living next door now-- a young Genin boy that essentially ended up living alone because of his parents’ long absences from his life.

Speaking of him, Kakashi had been right about to invite him over for dinner-- after all, the older boy was always in charge of babysitting the younger. They were probably the most automatic set of brothers in the world, both being shoved aside by parents who apparently had better things to do than care for their children.

“Wha- Kakashi?”

Minato had been over for a sort of dinner visit, needing to talk about some mission or something alone. Kakashi was reluctant to humour him, but the blond insisted he didn’t mind an extra guest eavesdropping on their news. Kakashi ran out of excuses and now he had to cook dinner for the Yellow Flash of Konoha. Joy.

He scoops up a set of keys that weren’t for his own door, and in his rush, he mixes up the keys twice before he manages to slot them into the doorknob.

Twisting the metal piece with a little more force than necessary, his hands shoots for the lights as soon as he realizes his neighbour’s living room is flooded in darkness--  _ again-- _ and his eyes dart around, trying to locate signs of life or destruction.

“Itsuki,” he calls, and when he doesn’t hear a response he tries again, louder, “Itsuki?”

He hears a clatter, coming in the direction of the kitchen. There was a small light on for his room-- Kakashi makes a break in that direction, spinning around the corner because that loud glass shattering didn’t sound like anything small at all. Did that huge sake pot on the shelf finally topple over?

He warned that brat  _ so many times _ to store it somewhere else, because storing a heavy breakable object up high is just stupid, but  _ no, dad put it up there and I’m not supposed to touch it!  _ Kakashi swears he will chew this little brat’s head right off the next moment he gets--

His voice is stuck in his throat.

Yes, in fact, the pot had toppled over and shattered to such many pieces it was an unrecognizable mess all over. But that wasn’t the problem.

The problem was the fact that one young boy was sprawled right in the middle of the mess. Sitting upright but his legs parted in a W, the boy looked almost confused. 

Staring almost fully upward to the ceiling, toward the ceiling light, he barely blinked nor showed any discomfort about the brightness. Itsuki rested his hands before him, looking up and almost basking in the light, celestially, like a sacred being.

He looked  _ dead _ .

Kakashi did a double take, swallowing strongly and calming himself. He counted to ten. Took deep breaths. Then, he felt like crying. And Hatake Kakashi doesn’t  _ cry _ .

From the very roots of his hair to the edge of his pants, Itsuki was soaked in what stank like alcohol. Kakashi sees it immediately-- through the strands of his hair, standing out against pale skin-- was a deep, scarlet flow.

It was _ blood _ .

The boy was bleeding, heavily-- did the pot fall on his head?  _ Fuck- _ it was a miracle that boy was still conscious, or maybe he wasn’t and his eyes were open because he was just  _ dead _ .

“Itsuki, you-- hell, what happened here?”

He reaches out, stumbling down into a crouch as he approached the younger boy.

And Itsuki’s sondering trance shatters, flashing in  _ despair _ and  _ pain _ and  _ so much more _ deep inside  _ Kakashi can’t even tell _ \-- hollow in horror, his gaze freezes mortifyingly still, only staring blankly in one large space before him-- eyes wide, body still and frozen and so, so, so, so  _ scared _ , as if he was trapped in a genjutsu or some horrible traumatic flashback that--

Kakashi’s hands hover before the boy, as if he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch him.

He felt that if he even dared to try, the boy (or what’s left of him) would be break and shatter and  _ disappear _ because that’s how fragile he looked right now.

Kakashi had never seen him like this.

When he does touch the boy, though, the response he gets is a violent rejection.

The boy is terrified and he yelps, slaps Kakashi’s hand away, scrambling back into the wall so deeply he searches frantically around him (eyes darting everywhere, as if he was trying to recognize his surroundings to no avail, begging for help but not reaching anyone at all) as if he was trying to get away but didn’t know where to go, where he was, and how to do it.

This confuses Kakashi. And Kakashi realizes that he ought to stop the boy before his head wound got aggravated-- but he doesn't, _can't_ move.

Itsuki actually shrinks, a whimper escaping his lips. Arms shooting up protectively across his own face, his wide, frozen eyes shot down, terrified.

_ So weak _ . So fearful-- _ like that same day his mother yelled at him because of something stupid again and _ \-- and Kakashi felt his heart break a little at the sight.

Kakashi hears Minato step in, hiss out a gasp, and rush right back out. He doesn’t pay that action any more mind, because he knows the teacher went to fetch a medic nin.

The white-haired boy remains crouched down beside the injured boy-- and he could only watch so powerlessly as the boy refused to even try to look at him.

Then he hears it.

“Wh-” the boy sounded so shrill, so,  _ so scared _ , so weak and so broken as his voice cracks through a question that really wasn’t anything more than a desperate plea: “who’s there?”

Suddenly Kakashi realizes that this was much worse than he’d initially surmised. A concussion, perhaps. Brain injury? He seemed conscious enough so perhaps it wasn’t too serious? But one aftereffect was evident and immediate on the boy.

Itsuki can’t  **_see_ ** .


	3. Chapter 3

When Itsuki wakes up, his eyes snap open. The darkness is all he sees, so he shuts them warily, realizing that he was at war, unconscious, if he didn’t know where he was at the moment the best option was to  _ play dead _ . 

In a second he realizes his weapons are nowhere to be seen, and the surface he lay on was abnormally soft. He bites down the panic that threatens to choke him, and he subtly feels around with his palms hidden under the sheets.

Softer than the dry mats in the medic tents. Softer than even the limp futons in their home base, but he knows he’s nowhere near the area. No way-- was this a  _ mattress?  _ He feels a gentle weight over him-- a blanket. And by the cooling winds on his cheek, there is a working fan in the room. How long had it been since he slept under one?

His hands clench over the sheets under him, and for the first time in forever, he feels cold fabric smooth over his palms.

His palms, numbed by years of calluses and scars and thickened by hard training-- yet, the feeling comes so easy to him, as if-- as if his hands were soft and  _ squishy _ and able to feel  _ warmth _ again.

**_What?_ **

“You’re awake,” a voice comes beside him, “I can tell, Itsuki.”

He flinches, because he knows that voice. His eyes snap open and still, everything is nowhere to be seen. The darkness suddenly seems like the belly of a giant snake, and his heart squeezes itself in-- he’s  _ trapped, surrounded, encased, no escape. _

That voice.

He’s spent years wishing to never hear it again. It was the voice that plagued his nightmares and the very voice he spent his childhood swearing to kill-- then he couldn’t, because Uchiha Sasuke got to kill him first, apparently.

The rippling waves of a familiar chakra signature floats before him, and although it emits none of that eerie, lusty nature now, Itsuki knows whose it was.  _ But he’s dead _ . He’s supposed to be dead unless- unless again  **_he_ ** ’s alive and again he’s going to try and--

Why?

Why is  _ Orochimaru-sensei _ here?

His hands strain. Realizing he’s still lying down, all his senses pivot to shove his body upward, flinching back as his first instinct demands his immediate escape from the situation. 

_ There’s a wall behind him.  _ To the left of him, too?  _ Oh no, he’s in the corner of a room _ . The only escape was…  _ forward? _

A sharp pain spikes through his head, and a groan escapes him with a hurt whimper, and he crumbles, curling up as he reaches up to his head, squeezing his eyes shut as the agony burns through his skull.

“You’re safe here.”

_ Safe? _

_ In what manner at all did Orochimaru have grounds to say that word? Why would he even dare imply that? Is this a trick? Am I captured? Am I his next test subject? His next vessel? His next-- _

“No need to be so wary,” Orochimaru speaks again, gentler this time, and a hand (oh god his hand his hand  _ he’stouchingme nononogoaway _ ) lands softly on his shoulder, snaking across his waist, and wraps around his shoulders.

_ In a discomfortingly fatherly manner. _

His legs raise, shoving a strong kick forward but from the way the hands on his shoulders swerve, he can feel that the man dodges it. 

Is it just him, or are his legs…  _ shorter? _

He screams, because anything, anyone,  _ get me away from this man _ , he shoves the arms right out of him and he curls into the wall, still failing to find an escape route nearby and he doesn’t think he can find one if the world is still so dark and small and trapped and--

And he feels as if he’s suffocating.

His chest is tight (so tight, it actually hurts like something is grasping his heart and threatening to drain it dry) and he’s hacking for breath but he curls up tight, squeezing himself toward the wall because the only thing he knows for sure is that  _ it’s there, it’s the only thing he knows is around him and everything else seems so far away, _ and so dearly he wished to blend into it, and let it hide him from this man he used to and no longer trusts.

He feels like he’s blindfolded, stranded on a single rock of land, standing in the middle of an abyssal ridge-- he’s terrified, he doesn’t know where to move, where to go, so every step and every single movement feels like it’d send him tumbling down to his eternal death.

He wanted to just leap. To scream and take his weapons and just slaughter this man to the littlest little bits he could. But it was dark and empty and he was  _ alone _ and Orochimaru had the advantage in dark areas.

But somehow at this moment none of that strength is there with him. None of that resolve and confidence he promised himself when he told Anko about his new goal. All that flooded his senses now was just a renewed fear, a blinding flash of old trauma, and the neverending wave of pain that crashed over each cell of his brain and shattered it to mush.

And he remembers.

_ Needles in his arms, snakes binding his wrists, thunder through his nerves, acid through his veins, and blood through his tears. He remembers the hand reaching out toward him, accompanied by that smile, that smile once so gentle, now seemed only so malicious. _

_ And then, the purple nails on those bony fingers as they tear his fingers apart one by one, revelling in his agony. _

He remembers Orochimaru and everything he did to him.

Suddenly he wasn’t a soldier anymore.

He was just a weak little crybaby at the mercy of another. Waiting for his death, only able to cry and eventually he would die.

All he can do is shrink and cry and wish with all his heart that the thing would just go away,  _ go away, don’t come back. _

“Itsuki!”

A pair of smaller, thinner,  _ warmer _ arms wrap around his neck, strongly and firmly and so protectively he doesn’t shoot it right back.

And suddenly everything breaks, everything flashes so brightly into him-- not light. The world was still empty. But something is there. Something that brings him back.

_ His breath is so quick _ , he suddenly realizes,  _ so quick _ , he’s barely even noticed. He feels like he’d run a marathon with no rest, breathing so strongly, so raggedly, his head spins and hurts,  _ he feels nauseated and any moment he’d hurl absolutely nothing from his empty stomach _ , and his heartbeat pangs in his brain tissue like a blaring alarm to tell him to  _ rest _ .

He obeys. Taking in a deep breath,  _ he forces himself to pause for a swell moment, scowling at the grasping pain for air _ , then he breathes out shakily.

His breaths are in bits and pieces, pathetic attempts at this apparently unconscious human instinct. Like a baby dolphin first surfacing, he’s forgotten how to breathe and was trying to learn it all over again.

He takes another moment-- his body seems to reactivate, booting back up slowly as his cognitive abilities start reeling in more information.

His eyes are wide open but  _ no _ , everything around him is still dark--  _ why can’t someone turn on the lights already please there’s oughta be a lamp in here somewhere! why is it still nighttime, where is the sun? _

What breaks him away from the net of information was a nostalgic waft of sugar.

The little figure that lay sprawled across his body (no, this body was little… but so was his own body, by comparison) smells of milk powder and crushed autumn leaves. 

“Itsuki, it’s okay,” the girl’s voice-- a child’s voice? No, this was definitely-- “it’s okay now, no one’s hurting you.”

The girl was a size smaller than himself, yet she pats his head so tenderly and runs her fingers through his hair so soothingly-- her words speak in a casual sing, just a little calm in the mischief.

“Anko,” he chokes out.

Itsuki finds himself leaning into her, head burying into her chest, wrapping his arms around her so needily even if he doesn’t remember her being this thin, nor her waist this small.

But for a moment it just didn’t matter at all.

He loses himself in her scent, craving the contact and the intimacy and the meager moment of affection he knows Anko would pull away from soon-- and for a while it really didn’t matter how dark it was or how scared he was.

He allows himself to think he was safe despite the ongoing war, and sleeps.


	4. Chapter 4

Anko holds his hand tightly, firmly, and Itsuki can’t help but squeeze back. Pulling his legs to his chest, he paws skeptically at the blanket that rides up with him.

“Look, Itsuki, I’ll need you to listen very carefully.”

Itsuki tenses, because he’s not too sure who exactly is talking. It sounded oddly familiar, but he couldn’t fix his tongue around the name. Was it just a random doctor? He’s heard that he was in the hospital. He managed to get Anko to stay beside him, but that was it.

Everything else feels foreign to him.

An unnaturally ratty yet soft blanket. A suspiciously cold mattress. A strangely small hand. An unbroken wall behind him. An upright Konohagakure.

What’s going on with the war? Why’s it so quiet outside? Was Madara subdued? Obito defeated? Or perhaps, are they in a ceasefire? None of those sound plausible.

_ Did they win? _ Then why isn’t he hearing sounds of the citizens rebuilding the town outside? 

_ How was he even able to wake up in-- in his own home, was it? _ Everyone’s telling him a pot fell over his head and he nearly suffered chronic brain damage, but he doesn’t remember anything about that.

He doesn’t understand how he could even be home two days ago  _ when he’s supposed to be forward on the front line fighting to his last breath _ , and most of all he definitely remembers burying that stupid sake pot ten feet underground after his dad died more than a decade ago.

Even so, everyone’s got much better things to worry about than him! What about the diplomatic matters? Financial damage? Burial? Political alliances? The multiple Gokage Summit Meetings necessary to settle the aftermath of a war?

Why was no one panicking, or being concerned, for any of this at all?

And most of all-- most of all,  _ that man-- _

No… beside him-- he hears commonfolk chatter in the distance. An old lady bargaining with a grocery shop owner. A man yelling at his other friend, calling him for a meal. A child laughing, and a girl dashing after him, reprimanding.

It sounds like… like some semblance of  _ peace _ .

“Itsuki, you’re… you’re  _ blind _ .”

Itsuki snaps back into reality. He was expecting a lot of news to reach his ears, this included, but it doesn’t stop his face from scrunching up in frustration, and his hands clench tighter on Anko’s.

He’s not going to say he didn’t suspect this-- after all, why was everyone acting like this total darkness was totally normal? Why haven’t his eyes adjusted yet? From the moment he was told this was a hospital, he realized that his chances were a curse or jutsu at best, blindness at worst.

“Medical Ninjutsu doesn’t seem to work, so we’ll have Hizashi-san come in and see what’s happening to the chakra coils around your eyes,” the doctor(?) was talking again, and Itsuki feels him lean in, a hand placed on the bed next to his thigh.

Itsuki raises his head, a brow arching at the man’s name--  _ that man was most definitely dead, last he remembered _ \-- then he comes to a conclusion that he’s misheard Hizashi for Hiashi (not for the first time, he will admit), and dismisses the thought.

“Itsuki, I’m going to remove the bandages on your head. I’m gonna have to touch your head, is that okay?”

Itsuki tries not to jerk away from how  _ close _ the voice suddenly seems. He holds onto Anko’s hand like a lifeline, he knows he’s hurting the girl but he can’t help it, he’s  _ scared _ , then he jolts out a nod he doesn’t think he has the will to pull through.

He swallows thickly, and for a few painful moments all his senses that still worked forces its way to his head, because  _ what is this man doing whatishedoingtome _ he’s just removing the bandages _ but howdoiknowforsure what if he’s- _ -

“Dan-sensei,” when Anko suddenly speaks up beside him, Itsuki leaps, and a choked breath hacks its way out. But it isn’t her interruption that surprises him.

... _ Dan-sensei? _

... _ Dan? _

“I think I should do it instead,” Anko offers hesitantly.

“Yeah,” Dan admits after a moment, and Itsuki feels the adult’s weight shift out of the bed, and back away. 

Itsuki’s eyes are wide enough that they feel like they’ll pop right out of their sockets. He stares straight forward and doesn’t know what he’s looking at, but he hears it now.

This voice-- this  _ voice _ , this  **_voice_ ** .

His hands reach for Anko’s, letting go for a brief moment only to grasp harder at her wrist, fearful of losing the only point of human contact he has to this world. 

Now that he thought about it, Anko’s voice was higher,  _ younger _ . It’s not his imagination. He can no longer brush it off as just sleep haze.

“Wh-Where’s,” when he speaks up, he’s almost sounds like he’s breaking apart, hands gripping tightly, voice shaking and body trembling, “Where’s my… where’s my headband?”

As if the panic’s transferred to the other two, Itsuki hears them scramble around before Anko brings something to his hands.

A cloth. A steel plate.

_ Smaller than he remembers. _

He keeps a desperate hand on Anko, and his hands runs up and down the cloth-- no, it’s not here, (it’snothereit’snothereit’snothere) the three hidden senbon on the left of the sash, they were  _ gone _ .

His hand quickly runs to the other end of the fabric-- there should be a crumpled, stringy part, when he’d messed up the fabric during his Jounin Test and clumsily stitched it back up-- but all he feels is smooth, unnaturally smooth cloth-- then he realizes that this headband almost feels  _ new _ .

He flips it over and, his breath held and his heart shuddering and his blood rushing to his ears, all he has in him is pleading to nothing that  _ please _ ,  _ don’t tell me this is happening _ .

His hand runs across the sleek metal plating, and when it brushes past the middle, he stops to feel the delicate carvings.

  
  


Five long seconds later, he lets his breath go, and the noise that tears out of his throat almost sounds like a whimper.

His hand leaves the hitai-ate and reaches up to his eyes, catching tears. Despite everything and anything and through all the fear and confusion and disbelief coursing through his veins, he lets it all out with a pitiful cry.

The mark on the headband signified the village of the Hidden Leaf.

Not the Shinobi mark of unity in the Fourth Great Ninja War.


	5. Chapter 5

“Alright Itsuki, I need you to tell me the last thing you remember,” Dan (Dan. Dan, why is he alive. He’s alive? When did he die again) is before him, speaking in soft tones, his words slow and almost forcefully calm.

Itsuki keeps a hand at Anko’s wrist, noting how his pointer finger and thumb could touch and still have a lot of space. He crosses his leg over the other, still comfortably fitting next to the wall on the bed, and lifts the wrist to the front of him, pressing curiously around the chubby hand and skinny wrist.

“The last thing I remember,” he mumbles as if only to himself, “Anko’s boobies shrank--”

There’s a loud smack noise and a burning pain spikes in his head-- Anko had punched him, head wound and all, so now his brain’s spinning, brain juice sloshing dangerously. He turns to where he thinks Anko is, holding his head and nursing the big bump right there.

“Ow,” he makes a point of saying it.

“Now, Anko dear, I know he  _ definitely _ asked for that one,” Dan made a dying noise like a strangled toad, (was he laughing?) “but please hold back on his head. It may have been healed but it’s not completely intact yet.”

Itsuki yelps, instinctively whimpering when Anko suddenly tears her hand away from his lap. 

Anko  _ hmph _ s, “if he’s got enough energy to be a pervert, he’s fine!” she snorts, and Itsuki jolts when he realizes the weight beside him is lifting and shifting away from the bed.

His hands reach out, drop forward, and jerks around, but when he doesn’t manage to locate anything a despaired noise rips from his throat.

The emptiness returns, and stares back down at him, scrutinizing his every twitch. He freezes, stays perfectly still. A fear washes over him, petrifying him, and he can’t move. 

He’s scared of moving.

What’s beside him? What’s around him? Will moving give him away? If he moved now, will the enemy find him? In a second, he’d be dead, and no one would even know. He shouldn’t move. This was a solo mission and he can’t fail it or they’d lose the war.

So he clamps his lips shut, and doesn’t breathe. Because heavy breathing (when did his breathing become so heavy? So quick? So frantic?) would give away his location as well. He stays so perfectly still, because he thinks he’s in the middle of the forest.

He’s in the middle of the forest, in the center of enemy territory, spying on the enemy which he had just lost sight of. The enemy’s noticed him. It was a standstill battle and the first to find the other wins. He would either mess up here and die or stall through this and live.

He doesn’t breathe, he clenches the sheets under him so tightly his fingers are cold and white from effort. He remembers what Kakashi’s told him before. He closes his eyes, pulls a hand over his mouth to hide the bottom half of his face.

A warm hand wraps over his, and abruptly he remembers where he  _ really _ is.

He gathers himself, his other hand landing on top of Anko’s-- and his fingers crawl up, slowly conjuring mental images as he registers that this hand is a  _ human _ , a  _ person he trusts _ , and he reaches around, the girl taking his hand and putting it on her shoulder as he slowly makes sense of the human form in front of him, remembering how humans were shaped and slowly understanding that there was a human beside him on the bed.

Anko lets him wrap his arms around her back, and bury his eyes into her shoulder. He stays there, breathing slowly, taking in her presence like it’s the only thing that matters in this world. 

He hears sounds. Maybe there’s a window in this room, but he hears the town outside. It smells like a bright and sunny day, and he’s unnerved by it.

Even before the war, he spent years living in the dark side of the Shinobi of Konoha. The concept of peace became nothing but a fearful calm before the storm to him. Killing his own emotions and faking a lack of sympathy for his own health, Itsuki didn’t like the silence.

It takes him a while to gather himself again, and he breathes out, loosening his grip on Anko, raising his head but never letting go.

“Hey, Anko,” he manages, “how old are you now?”

There’s a pause before Dan speaks up again, apparently explaining something to Anko, “well, a pot  _ did _ fall onto his head. Tsunade-san told us to be prepared for some memory-related defunct.”

_ Tsunade _ ...? The last time he met the esteemed  _ Hokage-sama _ , she was at the Gokage Summit, ordering him through Shikaku through Inoichi, and she had told him to find the scroll of-- oh, right. Time-Genjutsu-Dream-Illusion, Whatever this is.

Anko squeezes him closer, “I’m nine years old!”

Itsuki hisses. Then, a second later, “how old am I?”

“Ten!” 

“Well, what about uh, Kakashi- _ niisan _ ?”

“He’s always fifty years old!”

“Ah.”

Itsuki reaches to his hair, and although the bandages were removed he still feels blood-crusted hair from the apparent incident. He doesn’t remember it happening. He doesn’t remember this incident in his past. You really think someone would remember if a pot fell on their head when they were ten years old. Apparently not Itsuki.

If he’s ten years old… that means he’d just graduated the ninja academy. In another year Anko would follow his lead to graduate, along with their other teammate, and team Orochimaru would be complete.

Right. At this point of time, Itsuki was still under Orochimaru’s cohort.

“Are you calm now?”

He flinches when Dan begins talking again, more of surprise (he’d forgotten Dan was even here. Being unable to see sucks) than of fear.

A moment later, Dan asks, carefully this time, “tell me any and everything you remember. About yourself, about where you are, irrelevant information is fine too.”

“No being a pervert!” Anko adds sharply.

Itsuki manages to let a laugh rumble from his throat at that, because he missed this. He hasn’t had a proper conversation with Anko in years, him in the ANBU and her in the Academy and all. It was harder for them to indulge in their banter out in the open.

“My name… is Itsuki,” he begins, calming himself from every instinct in him screaming that  _ this is a trap, this is an interrogation, they’re trying to get information out of you and they’re going to kill you after they scrounge everything out of you _ .

“I’m from Konoha,” his voice weakens, faltering, but he pushes through because he knows these two are people he trusts and he’s not an ANBU he’s not an ANBU  _ now _ ,  _ now he’s just a measly Genin and everyone’s worried about you _ , “I’m a Genin…”

He feels their stares burning into him and he tightens his hold on Anko.

“I’m uh,” he pauses, “not in a team, because Orochimaru-sama wanted to train me personally,” then he stops and thinks, “I live next to Hatake Kakashi…”

It’s been about a decade since all this information was his, (it’s also been a while since he’s given information like this without being tortured for it,) so he takes a while to recall anything of importance, trying his best to seclude certain information from his mind as  _ not yet, I can’t tell him that because it hasn’t happened yet _ .

By protocol and experience, Itsuki knows he should tell him things such as recent missions, conversations-- but the only lead in the time frame he has now is that he’s a Genin, and that’s really nowhere to start.

Family? Itsuki barely remembers them.

He thinks, then observes, “Anko is letting me bury my face in her boob-- OUCH!!”

“Anko!”

“He was asking for it!” 

Somehow managing to stay clinging onto Anko, Itsuki buries his face into her stomach and seeped out words like a currently dead soul. Dan groans in exasperation, how hard could counselling get? Someone send in a pediatrician, or Inoichi!

“That’s it. I forgot everything. My name is wood. I am dead,” Itsuki croaks robotically.

“Look, now he’s being difficult!” Dan whines, maturity forgotten.

“He’s always like this!” Anko insists sharply.

An old man’s laughter fills the air, and Itsuki’s at first confused that the two immediately stop bickering. He can feel Anko tense sharply.

“Lord Hokage!” Dan is first to address the man. There’s the sound of chairs dragging out of the way, so Itsuki figures he’s moved to crouch down before said man.

“Hokage-sama, how long have you  _ been _ there?!” Anko is less tactful about her tone as she straight up gawks, “we didn’t even notice you!”

The old voice chortles, “now now, young Anko. What has Orochimaru taught you about indoor voices?”

Itsuki flinches, and his grip tightens around Anko’s shirt.

He swallows when he hears the voice, and  _ yeah, he should’ve expected this. Seriously, why did he think it wouldn’t anyways, _ because the deep, hearty chuckle he’s hearing is warm and inviting. It’s the same man that, although painstakingly busy, never fails to find a time to praise his efforts and skills and--

And Itsuki remembers having to stand by, helplessly watching him  _ die _ .

“Hokage-sama?” his voice escapes him as confused and perhaps a little needy.

He feels a warm, wrinkled hand against his head, so gentle and caring as it ruffled his hair-- and Itsuki leans in to the touch, knowing he should be happy.

After all, the esteemed  _ Hokage _ scrounged up some time in the midst of his paperwork and his business to visit  _ you _ , really, Itsuki should feel honoured.

All Itsuki really feels is a crushing understanding that he’s a  _ burden _ . He’s bothering the work of the most important person in the village-- for what? 

This is a Genjutsu, he believes.

**_This isn’t_ ** , a more logical part of him supplies. If it was a Genjutsu you’d be seeing it, that’s what Genjutsu do. It doesn’t make sense to cast an illusion that had no images. It just didn’t work that way.  _ What if this was hypnotism and it’s all an elaborate act? _

He knows that’s not possible either. Not to such gratifying detail, for such an insignificant soldier. Enemies were better off killing him.

He curses himself for actually  _ enjoying _ this lie. (It’s not a lie.) All of these people are fake, illusions, they’re  _ dead _ and how could you even think of spending a few selfish happy moments when in truth the Fourth Great Ninja War is happening and  _ more _ people are dying as you wait?

A part of him doesn’t care that it’s all  _ (maybe) _ a lie.

“It’s unfortunate, Itsuki, that this had to happen to you.”

  
For a moment, he wants to believe that his favourite Grandpa is still alive and loving and  _ for a moment,  _ he just wants to pretend it’s all real and indulge in the love.


	6. Chapter 6

It was apparently nighttime.

Anko was asleep beside him, so he carefully sat up, found the wall, and leaned on it. Keeping their fingers interlocked, Itsuki shifted into a lotus position and closed his eyes.

He hears. Wind breezing in from the open window, the whistling of the leaves and the chirp of crickets. If he strained, he could hear the rolls of a gurney, the indecipherable whispers of nurses and doctors.

He smells. The waft of petrichor, of soil and earth and summer. Fresh fruit on the trees-- was that a persimmon tree? The numbing waft of medicine and oils dominated his senses, and he frowns in distaste. Anko smelled lightly of sweat, with a hint of pumpkin spice. 

He’s been holding her hand for the entire day because he wouldn’t let go.

But who could blame him? Being blind was a frightening thing.

So he breathes in-- breathes out-- and sinks into himself.

—

It comes naturally to him.  _ Close off your mind-- and imagine yourself in a body of water. _ He reminds himself of the sequence Inoichi-san had guided the assassination division through, as a form of therapy. 

He takes a deep breath, pulls into a nosedive-- and goes in further.

He stands up in his mindscape-- and hesitantly, opens his eyes.

Colours fill his vision, and light filters through his eyes. He takes a shaky breath, almost  _ emotional _ at the thought of  _ colours _ and  _ being able to  _ **_see_ ** .

It’s just as he remembers-- a traditional Japanese Manor, with full wooden flooring lining the polished dojo. From the door he could see a Zen Garden furnished grandly, yet he’s never tried going outside.

It’s same old, same old.

After every mission, Itsuki was required to sit down in the dojo of his mindscape, kneeling on his knees, swords on either side of him as he meditates.

He would listen to the rhythmical, clear clang of the shishi-odoshi. He would immerse himself in the noise of the timely bamboo hammer, and compose himself from the strain and anxiety of the mission.

  
  


Except, this time, instead of mediation, he kneels down and just  _ sobs _ .

He’s done this a few times too. In future, when his teammates die, or they leave someone behind to fend for themselves. It was that kind of work, after all. He came here when Hiruzen died too, because here he had  _ privacy _ . 

There was a reason why the ANBU were outwardly unemotional.

Itsuki looks over himself again.

To his much too tiny hands, to his uncomfortable thin wrists, to his skinny arms and beansprout limbs and-- and  _ yeah _ ,  _ what the fuck is going on _ ?

His own chakra is white to him. A weak orb swirling nervously inside his veins, stemming from his heart yet flickering so bashfully he should be ashamed at the weakness it exuded.

Underdeveloped. Untrained.

“Oh god-- sage,” he whispers to himself, “ _ why _ time travel?”

Let’s put aside the fact that it’s possible--  _ holy hell it’s possible _ \-- but why  **him** ? 

Why not-- Why not Tsunade-sama? Or, or that jinchuuriki everyone’s buying time for, Naruto? Or even Kakashi-niisan or the other Kages, (fuck, Shikaku-san and Inoichi-san just died, didn’t they? They would’ve been perfect for this job) or… or just someone,  _ anyone else would’ve made a better candidate to send back in time _ . Whoever was planning this bullshit really didn’t think things through, did they?

Itsuki’s not too sure when he started laughing, but he clumsily brushes his hands through the tears and cries out as much as his ten or eleven-year-old body let him.

He was never one to be so expressive.

Maybe the age regression actually did something to his psyche, because he’s pretty sure he cried less when all his fingers were broken one by one.

—

He lifts his head to the sign framed high on the front wall of the dojo. In neat, calligraphy brush strokes-- the kanji for  **Perseverance** **忍** , the accompaniment of  **Words 言** .

**認**

“ _ Discern _ ,” he reads it.

He scoffs, because that’s just ironic.

He stands up, and wipes his tears away one last time. His breathing is much smoother now, though his eyes feel raw from the tears and his head hurts from all the crying.

_ To perceive, to recognize. To persevere as a Shinobi.  _

It’s never different. These were the words that pulled him onward in life, he would read it over and over again to remind himself what exactly he could do, how, and why. It was a motto that meant enough to him that it shows up in his mindscape, framed and hung high.

He slaps himself in both cheeks, and with renewed resolve, he jerks out of his mindscape.

—

The first thing he attempts is to shakily let go of Anko’s hand.

He fights the darkness that threatens to swallow him, and his hands close in front of him like a prayer, fingers interlocked. 

Right thumb over left, because this wasn’t a hand seal. 

(It was a habit. His mother,  _ who he barely remembers the face of _ , had always done this when she taught him chakra sensory. It always helped her focus-- it helped him, too.)

He takes a deep breath.

His chakra swirls like an orb-- dancing gently like flames, he extends.

And he senses it clearly. 

Before him, Anko is a gentle wave, calm and undisturbed. Strong and unfaltering. Outside, a myriad of nurses and doctors are calm and their signatures are thick and strong.

His shoulders are tense as he tries to reach further, but a sharp pound begins to in his head and he gives up, tired from the exertion. His chakra shrinks back into its portal in his chest, and he finds himself shrinking back into the eating hollows.

He parts his hands, and sighs.

Reaching down and feeling around the sheets, he finds Anko’s hand and wraps his own around it, smiling at the little warmth as Anko’s body snuggles closer.

His sensory skills are back to shit, that sucks. And now, he’s  _ blind _ to top it off. As if training isn’t hard enough already, every cell inside him fears the immediate future.

What if his Genin rank got revoked for this? What if he was told he couldn’t become a ninja anymore?

But  _ Dan _ is alive, he remembers. 

And  _ Orochimaru  _ is his teacher.

What if he, if even just  _ him _ , could  _ change _ things for the better?

Itsuki thinks it sounds ridiculous. What could a  _ blind _ ANBU grunt like him do? Save the world? Pfft, as if.

If he was eleven now, he didn’t even have half the things and skills that earned him his place as an ANBU at all. 

This was all such a pain in the ass!

Itsuki lay down beside the girl, reaching for the sheets and covering them fully. 

Leaning his forehead dearly into their interlocked hands-- for now, there really isn’t anything else he wants to do.


	7. Chapter 7

Itsuki can still learn things about his childhood friend apparently, because just today he finds out that Mitarashi Anko is a _terrible_ dog walker.

First day out of bed and Itsuki has walked into three nurses, thirty benches, five vending machines, sixteen doors, and twenty one walls.

“Anko, stop laughing already and lead me properly!”

The girl is too busy doubling over with laughter, hand clenched on the boy’s but apparently the boy was leading the way, not her.

“It’s much funnier to watch.”

“That’s not the point, Anko, I-- GYAAAAHHh!!!”

One second he was cranky and snappy, and the next second he all but shrieks when a hand he doesn’t think is Anko’s touches his shoulder. He claws his way to Anko, arms wrapping around the girl (her neck? Shoulders? Her general direction) and clinging desperately.

“What,” he’s freaking out now, “what was that--”

Anko laughs, arms folded and unable to wrap around the boy’s back, but her hands manage a few assuring pats.

“There, there,” she soothes unhelpfully, “that was just Obito.”

**Obito?** He’s confused. “Obito?” He remembers.

 _That_ Obito? Mister _apparently he’s the mastermind? holy crap someone get Kakashi some fucking oxygen before I leave my post and do it myself--_

The one in the crazy mask he’s been told to spy on a few times and every time the man sees Itsuki and does nothing because the masked man knows Itsuki holds no candle to him so Itsuki ends up going home and crying himself the fuck through nightmares before he reports to the Hokage the next morning?

He’s clinging tighter before he realizes, and then he hears it.

“Look what you’ve done, Obito,” it’s a child’s voice, but intoned in a mature fashion-- a little gruff, and maybe muffled through a mask. Sounds like Kakashi when he was still a little shit. Ah, right, he’s a little shit now, isn’t he?

“Rin told us not to sneak up on him. And what do you do? You sneak up on him.”

“It wasn’t on purpose!” the response comes high and whiny.

Stretching his chakra still takes too much effort, but in this close proximity, Itsuki finds himself feeling the chakra come to him instead.

 **Sparkly and periodically suppressing in control** , that’s definitely Kakashi. It’s a little more controlled than he’s used to feeling it-- but then again, Itsuki hasn’t actually felt him like this without visual confirmation. It’s weird. And something in him bubbles insecurely.

 **Fluttering wildly and bursting without a care in the world** \-- Itsuki hisses, because that’s not the _Obito_ in the insane mask and the alias of Madara. That’s _Obito_ without the dark feelings, purely, wholly Obito so brightly _nostalgic_ it’s almost foreign to him.

“Don’t want Obito,” he mutters into Anko’s neck, burying his eyes into her shoulder.

He’s done walking today. He wants to sleep and go home and, _fuck_ , _can he wake up already?_ Hello Afterlife god? Thanks for this dumb time travel reincarnation bullshit, I think I’m done. Can I have eternal darkness back now?

He’s not looking forward to physical therapy and going back into active duty anymore. _Screw you Orochimaru-sensei, Anko’s mine._

“He says he hates Obito now!” Anko translates cheerfully, and there’s a despairing wail (that’s followed by something that sounds like ‘I’m not crying I just got something in my eye’) before Anko settles her semi-trapped hands in a kind-of-hug around Itsuki’s waist.

“Itsuki,” suddenly he’s being addressed, so he tenses, “it’s Kakashi.”

He identifies himself, first and foremost. Well, someone’s been listening to their blind protocol lessons. Guess that’s to be expected of Konoha’s most prospective child prodigy. He has a ton of useless knowledge.

(Or maybe they just got a brief from Rin, who knows)

“He can stay,” Itsuki decides, still stuck to Anko’s shoulder.

“Scarecrow stays!” Anko declares.

“This is unfair!” Obito objects to the verdict.

“All of you!” a loud voice cuts in, sounding oddly rough for a woman, “this is a hospital. Anyone who isn’t a patient, their charge, or furniture, get out!”

“I’m a patient,” Itsuki claims the spot.

“What’s a charge?” Anko asks, “I don’t need batteries.”

“I’ll volunteer to be furniture, so Obito can be ‘get out’,” Kakashi deadpans, delegating their roles evenly.

"Wait, wha-?"

“Don’t be cheeky with me, you brats!”

Ah. Now Itsuki knows who’s talking. He hears the clatter of a clipboard as a dull impact, followed by a sharp fissuring noise, colliding with the vending machine (wall?) beside him.

He feels Anko straighten fearfully.

“Into the garden, all of you!” the command is without a response, as the next thing Itsuki knows is that his feet aren’t on the ground and they’re apparently travelling on the horizontal axis through the walls that aren’t there and then--

Falling straight down…?

Itsuki’s breath holds, his stomach sinks, and dread swallows him whole.

For a moment, he wasn’t in the hospital, wasn’t in Anko’s arms, wasn’t being playfully bickered at and surrounded by happy screams.

He was ANBU Serow, kunai in his chest, two inches from his heart, falling to his death.

And, whoever that was, laughed.

He stops breathing.

-

“Violent gorilla woman!” Anko squawks, raising a fist in the air. She kicks her feet out of the hard bush, but she couldn’t move too much because of the weight on top of her.

“Tsunade-hime is brutal! How could she throw four kids out the window like that!” Obito’s next to raise his utter exasperation, “Itsuki’s still injured, ya know!”

“I still don’t know what Dan-sensei sees in her,” Kakashi spites.

Anko sighs audibly, and tries to lift her head out of the depths of the vines. Her other foot was tangled in there somewhere.

They had landed right on the garden, Kakashi on his feet, Obito handing off a tree branch by his knee, and Anko back down on the bushes, with Itsuki still in her arms.

Or, she was in Itsuki’s arms.

She’s vividly aware of a burning grip on her back, and manages to crane her head forward, to Itsuki, whose head is buried in her neck.

She hears a sniffle, and knows playtime is over.

“Itsuki?” she calls, but the boy doesn’t respond, “Obito, go call Dan-sensei!”

Immediately, the boy hurls himself out of the tree, landing on his feet, staggering once. Then he takes one glance at Itsuki, and he’s off running.

“I’ll go for Tsunade-sama,” Kakashi points toward the sky. Not waiting for a response, he scales the wall, back through the hole they’d flown out of.

Anko stays quiet, remembering what Dan had told her to do.

Itsuki was breathing quick. Rapidly, so shallow and incessant she wasn’t sure if he was actually taking in any oxygen at all. But she doesn’t panic. She tries not to, at least.

She felt his heart thumping near her abdomen, and she knows that’s not how fast hearts go.

So she wraps her arms around the boy, and experimentally, takes a deep breath. She holds it for four seconds, then lets it out, slowly.

Itsuki’s claws on her back loosened slightly, then tensed again.

“Hey, Itsuki,” she says softly, “follow my breathing.”

And he does. He tries, a broken hum against her collar as he seems to choke on his breathing, taking in shakier-than-normal breaths and attempting to not let them out too soon.

The sun is warm out. The bush under her is hard and stiff, but she stays still, her hand rubbing awkward up and downs on the older boy’s back.

She closes her eyes to simply enjoy the moment.


	8. Chapter 8

Kakashi sighs.

Beside him, Minato laughs dryly.

Right on Itsuki’s hospital room door, was a huge, colourful list of names. Apparently, blue ink was ‘you’re allowed, i guess’, and red ink was ‘go away, Anko bites’.

Kakashi’s name isn’t anywhere on that list, but Pakkun’s name is, along with a wriggly scribble of a henohenomoheji beside it. Minato’s name is stuck on with a piece of paper that labels him ‘TBA’. 

Minato observes the biggest red writing (‘Tsunade-hime go away’, and a scary depiction of a demon hag or something) with a sort of amused understanding. Maybe there’s a story there.

“I’m pretty sure ‘Kakashi’ is easy to write,” he spites, grumbling ways to punch that girl in the head for this evident discrimination.

“Now, now, Kakashi,” Minato soothes the boy, “maybe she just forgot?”

Kakashi scowls at that, but doesn’t say anything else. He lifts his hand, and knocks like a normal human being.

“What’s the password??” a female voice inside the room pipes up with an annoying amount of cheer, and Kakashi has to physically restrain himself from kicking the door down.

Minato flusters, “oh no, quick, Kakashi, what do you think Anko would--”

“This is Kakashi, I’m coming in, Itsuki,” he decides to ignore the teacher completely, reaching for the doorknob and unhesitatingly wrenching it open.

Then he stops.

Because the second he steps in, he finds Itsuki on the bed, Anko sprawled over on top of him straddling his little figure. 

Kakashi freezes, takes two breaths. Minato facepalms.

“It’s not what it looks like!” Anko says.

“I don’t know what this looks like but it’s not what it looks like!” Itsuki parrots.

Kakashi doesn’t hear a word of it. He marches over, face criminally stoic, and grabs Anko by the scruff before tossing her to the side.

“Alright, you’re officially fired from babysitting,” he declares.

“Stingy!”

“What do you mean ‘stingy’?!”

“I’ve been taking care of Itsuki this whole time! You don’t get to steal him from me!”

“You’ve been obsessively clinging onto him, that’s what!”

In the next second, Itsuki is tugged back and forth between the two bickering forces, swinging from one arm to another.

Eventually, he’s scooped up into someone’s arms.

He’s spent the majority of the past few days huddled into someone’s arms like a baby anyways, so maybe another day of it wouldn’t hurt.

It’s a big person, so at first, he wonders if it was Kakashi, then he remembers that Kakashi was tiny now. Maybe it was Dan. He feels the hard chest of the Konoha Flak Jacket, and these arms were wide and homey.

“Both of you, please calm down,” and the voice, Itsuki realizes, isn’t Dan’s-- “you’re going to confuse Itsuki-kun at this rate.”

“But, Minato-sensei, Anko’s definitely taking advantage of his blindness,” Kakashi accuses, “didn’t you see that just now?”

“I tripped! And then Itsuki wouldn’t let go of my hand so he fell too,” Anko announces boldly, “then Bakashi didn’t answer the password so he’s at fault too!”

Itsuki wraps his arms around Minato’s neck, and sighs.

Maybe he should’ve expected the Fourth Hokage to be alive too. Like, why wouldn’t he? Why was he still surprised? 

Once again he finds himself missing his eyes. Missing the light that was so, so necessary, and so, so robbed from him.

He can barely remember the painfully yellow shade of his hair. Because really, no one had hair that bright a blond, not even Naruto. But they had the same eyes. Itsuki knew because he’d seen Naruto look at him the same soft way Minato once had, with those eyes that really had no business being so blue.

So he breathes in.

The faint smell of posies, wafting from his perhaps freshly washed flak jacket. The man smells like sunshine and baked pottery, with a gentle hint of spice.

Itsuki almost laughs.

“C’mon, kids, we’re here to take Itsuki-kun home,” Minato urges them, a hand running soothingly up and down Itsuki’s back, as if he wasn’t too sure what else to do about the child in his arms, “Kakashi, why don’t you gather his stuff? And Anko-chan, you can go look around and see if we’ve missed out on anything.”

Incredibly, the two cease fighting. With a simple obliging response, Itsuki began to hear shuffling around the room. Occasionally Anko would go ‘there’s nothing outside the window!’ and Kakashi would go ‘why the heck would you check there?’, but in a fast few minutes they were done and ready to go.

“So, Itsuki-kun, would you rather walk on your own, or should I carry you home?”

When Minato finally speaks to him, Itsuki isn’t really sure how to respond. A greeting? Long time no see? An apology for the trouble?

“I-” he tightens his grip on the man’s shoulder-- he pushes back, only to realize with a start that he’s airborne and there’s nothing under his feet. Fear overpowers him and he’s clutching closer to Minato. His voice is a near squeak when he manages to say “I’m fine like this.”

He wants the ground, actually. Solid ground that doesn’t feel like he’s floating in someone’s chokehold or something, but then again, he doesn’t think he’ll be able to walk far today. Especially after what happened the last time...

Minato takes a step forward. Itsuki jerks, grasping at the man’s sleeves as he felt himself move. A moment later, he decides a little too desperately, “I’ll walk!”

The air is scary. The ground is nice, let’s not defy gravity today.

Reluctantly, Minato puts the boy down, standing him on his feet. Itsuki _ is _ old enough to not require being carried around, (and since he was a Genin, that meant he was a legal adult despite everything,) but in his current state Minato wonders if it’s childish stubbornness, rather than shinobi maturity.

Itsuki stretches one hand out warily, the other closed tightly around the leg of Minato’s pants. 

“Eh, if you hold onto me like that, I can’t walk,” Minato rubs him on the head, “alright then, Kakashi and Anko, which one of you wants to hold his hand?”

“Me!”

“No, you’re terrible at it!”

“No I’m not!”

Minato falls silent as the two start raising their voices. Itsuki wonders why the nurses aren’t here to make them quiet yet, but he decides to tug twice on Minato’s clothes, hoping to get his attention.

Minato hums, then crouches down to put a hand on Itsuki’s head before he asks, “what is it?”

His voice is close, but Itsuki doesn’t tear away. His chakra is warm and sizzling, not quite as blazing as a sun, but gentle and calming, like a sun-baked road on a nice spring day. 

“How’s… Orochimaru-sensei?”

The moment the words spill from his lips, he flinches. Why did he ask that? He hates the man with a burning, boiling passion (hotter than the hells itself) and if possible he would never want to interact with him again, time travel or not.

But it hits him harder that inside, something deep inside-- he wants to see the man again. See the man before he was what he became.

...why was it, that in this time, Itsuki adored Orochimaru-sensei so much?

(Because the one that gave him the ability to be so fearsome-- that was you, Itsuki.)

(It’s your fault everyone suffered.)

(It’s your fault Anko suffered, and our last Uchiha defected.)

( _ Your fault _ .)

Minato seems surprised as well, and his answer is laced with a chortle.

“He’s pretty depressed,” Minato responds easily, “because his  _ dear _ little student rejected him so strongly, and also because he’s been disallowed to see you. I’m here because he told me to look after you in his stead.”

Itsuki flushes red. He hears Minato mumble something under his breath, but he doesn’t hear anything more than ‘and because Tsunade is grounded’.

“So once you get settled at home, you should go talk with him, alright?” Minato urges gently, grasping fingers over his until they were holding hands.

Itsuki squeezes back hesitantly.

“I’ll try,” he promises.


	9. Chapter 9

Itsuki stands in the middle of the training ground, and he closes his eyes.

He spends the night with Kakashi beside him as he tries to throw shuriken, but no matter how specific the directions were, Itsuki was getting nowhere in his training.

He can’t see the target, less properly gauge how far away it was, how much closer or further each shuriken he throws come. He couldn’t readjust his aim, much less understand his own progress, and that makes his training very frustrating and so entirely futile.

So he intertwines his fingers before him, right thumb over left in a prayer, and expands his senses around.

His chakra held together inwards, he takes a deep breath through his nose, and blows out through his mouth. His eyes shut, he sends his chakra streaming to his feet, to the ground.

Stretching as thinly as he can, he pulls them across the grass like a vein of roots.

“What are you doing?”

He’s zapped back into reality, and with a longsuffering groan he snaps to the general direction of Kakashi and hisses, “Shhh!” 

He tries again.

But his focus is lost and his chakra can’t quite coagulate anymore. His chakra feels like water, and the only thing his hands can do is helplessly watch it seep through the cracks of his fingers. 

_ What a waste _ . He groans, hand in his hair and tugging lightly.

“I’m pathetic,” he decides, flopping to the ground, “can’t even throw shuriken.”

How the mighty have fallen. Prospective top two of the year in shuriken alone, now down in the dumps and worse than a dead last. What a shame.

And to his utter, bone-crushing horror, Kakashi grumbles out to agree. “Yeah, you kinda are,” he mutters. “Even Obito can throw better.”

Except, he’s an Uchiha and still considered above average in his rank? 

“You’re mean,” Itsuki whines, hurt.

“Honesty is a virtue,” Kakashi responds easily, like he’s practice this hundreds of times.

And yes. He has. 

A hurt swells in Itsuki’s chest when he remembers-- the last time he saw Kakashi, the last time  _ over there _ , was in a goddamn manju place down the street from Ichiraku.

Kakashi had called him childish for his sugar intake. Itsuki, the ever amazing person at quarreling he is, short-circuited and his vocabulary shrank to the levels of  _ you’re an ugly meanie pants go away _ . It ended terribly, but they laughed it off. 

That had been their last ever conversation. 

Half of their greetings in their life were Kakashi pointing out something he did, Itsuki calling him mean, and the former justifying himself with the denotation that he was simply being honest. At some point it became routine. It was so dumb.

**Now it’s gone** .

It feels like the first time again that Itsuki’s chest burns, suddenly realizing that he’s  _ losing _ so much.  _ Lost _ so much.

This isn’t the Kakashi he spent years working under, putting back together. This isn’t the Kakashi who led him through his first kill and isn’t the Kakashi that he nursed through chakra exhausted nights because he was too stubborn to get his puppies to coax him out of nightmares.

This isn’t, isn’t  _ his _ Kakashi.

And it hurts.

“Itsuki?” 

He doesn’t know what his face looks like, but it probably says something that Kakashi sounds worried. He’s never worried.

Itsuki lays on his back, and he’s told it’s nighttime. The sky looks dark enough for that. Maybe because it’s black either way. He can’t see the stars, can’t see the moon, can’t see the silver gleam of Kakashi’s hair, because it shines at night and it’s beautiful but  _ no, he can’t see it anymore, not ever again _ .

“Buy me manju,” Itsuki says, and it’s like an order. 

Kakashi makes a noise like a snort, “whatever you want, your highness.”

It’s too late in the night, so Itsuki stays there, breathing. He feels Kakashi beside him, and it’s a little warm. He’s like a furnace.

He can’t keep Kakashi here forever. He definitely wants to go on his own training-- he’s probably restless. Anko was training too, the graduation exam was soon for her. She’s wasted enough time with Itsuki’s recovery. The thought alone fills him with guilt.

There has to be more he can do, without needing constant supervision.

He was a genin, after all. (Actually, I’m ANBU.) He’s supposed to be independent. If he can’t do this, he’ll just have to grind his heels until he can.

Adapt.

“So, what’s Hokage-sama going to do with my ninja rank?” he rolls over to where he thinks Kakashi is, and asks, “am I demoted?”

Kakashi snorts, “if you were demoted, you’d be going to an orphanage,” he says, his idea of a joke, “but no, your rank is just temporarily suspended.”

And Itsuki promptly crumbles.

“I’m not too sure about the specifics-- but according to the code, you’ll be treated just like any injured shinobi-- you’ll be taken off the duty roster so you’ll have time to recover, and eventually you’ll be put back into active duty.”

This didn’t happen last time around, which may or may not result in a rather big gap in Itsuki’s personal capabilities. Then again, last time around he wasn’t blind.

Perhaps this could work out after all-- Itsuki could just lie around waiting to get back on track while he waits for Anko to graduate. It won’t destroy his team.

“Ah, damn,” he swears under his breath, “how am I going to become a shinobi now?”

He can’t throw shuriken, which means he can’t aim or do sight recon from the sky. He can’t see hand signs in a battle and he can’t carve words to make seals.

“You think I’ll be able to draw seals using my muscle memory?”

“That’s… impossible.”

Kakashi’’s immediate answer isn’t exactly unexpected. He wouldn’t be able to read, much less write, without a great degree of practice that he surely didn’t have time nor the guidance for.

“For god’s sake, how did any blind ninja work out?”

“With training and discipline.”

“That has got to be the most  _ Hatake _ answer possible.”

Kakashi raises an eyebrow at that, but Itsuki looks away stubbornly, pretending to not acknowledge it in the slightest.

Itsuki needed a new route. As a sensor, he had the natural advantages of knowing where people were present. But that wasn’t enough. That isn’t enough for a ninja.

As an ANBU, Itsuki was the greatest in reconnaissance, spywork, ambushes and laying groundwork for an assault. These were all skills he had, and he had lost with his sense of sight.

He can’t mourn over what he lost. He’ll have to find another way.

“Are there no active shinobi who are blind?” Itsuki voices his question, and he feels Kakashi stiffen because of their close proximity.

Kakashi’s response is hesitant. “There were a few, but after a number of years back in line they retired,” he says, then clarifies, “some of the elders of the Uchiha.”

Itsuki straightens.

_ The Uchiha are still alive _ , he realizes,  _ all of them. _

And the village’s chemistry with them isn’t the best at the moment. Would they be willing to help a kid like him?

“Maybe I can ask Minato-sensei and Obito-san to help me out,” Itsuki says, more hopeful than he feels. He’s not too keen on the idea.

And Kakashi senses the discomfort in his tone. 

“You’re thinking of something else,” Kakashi says, like it’s a fact, and Itsuki doesn’t like it when Kakashi just  _ knows _ what he thinks. He always does, the asshole.

And Itsuki admits it easily, because it’s Kakashi.

“Yeah,” he says, “I’m thinking of studying Juuinjutsu with Orochimaru-sensei.”

There is, after all, a reason Orochimaru had his eyes on Itsuki in the first place.


	10. Chapter 10

During his time in the academy, Itsuki stood out among his peers for his unique interest in Fuuinjutsu. It was an art not many dabbled in, and after the fall of Uzushio, the only one knowledgeable enough about the skill to master it was Uzumaki Kushina, one of the last of her kind.

No one could pursue it, simply because there were no teachers.

But Itsuki studied it anyways, simply because he was interested. And as word spread, Orochimaru took an interest in him and scooped him out of the crowd.

He would not be the first of the Sannin to lead a disciple.

Itsuki remembers his time with Orochimaru-sensei very well. He spent every day of the week buried in books. 

Sometimes, he’d find himself in Big Sis Kushina’s house for dinner and late night study session, or Master Jiraiya would nab him in the mornings before he even woke up-- he’s had to stop Manda from crushing houses more times than he could count, simply because Orochimaru’s one solution to retrieving his kid was apparently “eat those darn kidnappers with a gigantic snake”. 

He remembers thinking that those days were fun.

_ “You will be the Serow,” _ Lord Hokage had bequited him an ANBU title-- and it was an unexpected one.  _ “A lone deer.” _

Itsuki never asked why he was given the name.

Like the Cursed Seal that marred the large of his back, and the scales that ate through his neck, he had expected to be given the mask of the Snake.

In a way, he was grateful.

He was grateful that, despite his expertise in Fuuinjutsu, no one ever asked for his help in the production and distribution of seals. No one asked why he put up a henge he never tore down, because they knew that the only thing that lay under the disguise was monstrosity Itsuki never showed the world.

Like Anko, Itsuki was simply Orochimaru’s test subject.

They all understood his decision to never hold the pen again.

-

Travelling back in time, Itsuki realizes that these guys still didn’t understand. They knew the Itsuki that tore through the hardest papers and ran through bottles of ink like it was nothing.

They knew the Itsuki who was obsessed with the study of seals, they knew the Itsuki who honed his sensory and ninja skills simply so he could sneak into restricted parts of the library for more books to study.

They knew the Itsuki who didn’t know pain.

They knew the Itsuki who still loved Fuuinjutsu.

-

“If you were to travel back in time, would you do something about all the mistakes you’ve ever made in your life?” Itsuki asks, speaking to Minato and Kakashi. “Would you avoid your misfortunes and run from the suffering you know will come?”

He sits at the kitchen table, knowing food is in front of him. His hands hover around for the cutlery, slowly easing around to the bowl.

Minato takes a moment to answer. Itsuki doesn’t know if he’s staring, or if he’s even stopped eating to acknowledge the question.

There was something about total darkness that made Itsuki close his eyes, not because of the light, but simply because the realization that his eyes  _ don’t work don’t work don’t work _ still takes him in a frustrating, irritating way. 

“I would try and make my mistakes into successes,” he says, and there’s a wise undertone to his voice he usually doesn’t use, “but my misfortunes-- I will leave them be because they’ve made me what I am.”

Itsuki bites his cheek, looking away. He isn’t quite happy with that answer. 

Minato wouldn’t understand. He wouldn’t understand how  _ odd _ it was for Itsuki, who has lived his days cursed by his own passions-- Minato wouldn’t understand. 

Anyone would tell Itsuki to abandon it. 

He’s finally,  _ finally _ free from the curse. He finally breathes, lives, and  _ smells  _ like a  _ human _ . Why should he work to get it back onto him?

(What if he  _ could _ get it again, but this time without the repercussions?)

Orochimaru had used him as a prototype for his semi-immortality. Itsuki was nowhere near being immortal-- he ended up being cursed with the warped form of something that wasn’t quite a snake, wasn’t quite human, and it corroded him slowly from within. 

(But it made him stronger. It made his senses stronger. It gave him the ability to see in the darkness and sense intruders from their movements. It gave him extra sensory organs.)

Itsuki hated that power.

(But it was the power that granted him his standards as an ANBU Sensor.)

Kakashi interrupts his thinking with a snort. “If time traveling was a possibility, I’d train harder so none of that can ever even happen,” he says, confidence booming from his voice alone. If Itsuki could see, perhaps he would see Kakashi glancing disdainfully at his father’s photograph, mouth full of food. “Why else would I go back in time?”

Itsuki isn’t too sure why he smiles.

(He misses this.)

(Kakashi changes after the consequent deaths of his comrades-- but one part of him, the stubborn part of him that cheers Itsuki up in any situation-- that never changed.)

“You’re right,” Itsuki resigns himself, “it’s a dumb question, isn’t it?”

He opens his eyes. It’s not any brighter, but he lifts his bowl carefully to his mouth and drinks in the warm miso soup, because it’s the taste of home he hasn’t had in years.

It’s the taste of the miso soup he shared with Kakashi all those years ago and now he finds himself in. 

(If only I tried harder that time. If only I tried harder to stop Orochimaru.)

(If only I tried harder to train. If only I was stronger.)

(It’s not an  _ if only _ anymore.)

“Well, I guess I’ll just have to try harder now,” he says, a sort of resolve in his voice, ”I’ll need to work on my chakra control, and in between that if I can learn how to write blind I can get back to studying seals and--”

“Itsuki, I think you need to work on not working into walls first.”

“Oh, c’mon, Kakashi-niisan, you ruin the mood of everything!”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey-ho! I'm the awkward author of this story that is sometimes cheerful, other times weird, and other other times I'm still weird but nevermind, anywAYS! 
> 
> Thanks for reading this story, person on the internet that somehow hasn't skipped this author note yet! I just want to say I love y'all for sticking around even though this story is going so slowly. I really appreciate all your comments and they never fail to make my day! All of you are total angels and please take a moment to accept my virtual love at the highest level. 
> 
> Bless all your souls, and I hope you enjoy this new chapter, because Orochimaru finally shows his face! (Or not, because uh, this story is kinda written in a blind pov so no faces can really be seen either way if you get what I mean?)

So, step one of making it back into ninjahood: **let’s not walk into any walls this morning!**

Itsuki knocks his head into the door, the doorknob jabbing into his ribs. He chokes, and doubles over in agony, coughing.

**Let’s try that again.**

“What did the door ever do to you?” Kakashi chides.

Itsuki shrieks, _no I didn’t_ , “how long have you been there?”

Kakashi doesn’t reply, and Itsuki’s face heats up. He stands up again, and this time, he extends his chakra externally-- and feels Kakashi’s chakra pulse back in resonance.

“Itsuki-kun,” Minato’s voice comes in from behind, the door open in a sort of surprise, “who taught you to do that?”

Itsuki freezes. Had he not learned it yet by this time? Dammit-- he can’t say it was Orochimaru… Who was a great sensor he knew?

“Mom,” he replies, almost juttingly as he spoke the moment the answer came to him. He fears it may have sounded unnatural, but the answer itself made Minato clutch tighter onto the doorknob, a creaking noise barely audible.

“...is that so?” Minato says, a little guilt permeating his voice-- “to think you were hiding something like this all this while.”

Itsuki flusters. “I-- I never actually tried, but,” he has to think up a reason, a proper reason why and how he would be using his mom’s technique three years down the hill, “I just, remembered that she did this before and I-- I’ve been trying to imitate her?”

The last bit sounded like a question.

He swallows, and stands still.

Then Minato laughs, “I’m not reprimanding you,” he clarifies, and a hand drops onto the boy’s head, lightly ruffling the black locks, “I just think it’s amazing. Your endurance needs work, but your handling and chakra control is worthy of a Jounin-level technique.”

Itsuki stands, stunned-- unable to help the brightness in his features at the compliment.

"Only in chakra handling, though," Kakashi says, unnecessarily eager to ruin good moods, "everything else sucks."

Itsuki threw a pillow in his vague direction. He's not too sure where it ended up but it did not sound like it hit Kakashi. Dammit.

It wasn’t as if he had gained his capabilities from the future-- perhaps it was the countless years of work and experience as an ANBU that told him the most efficient ways to mold and thin out chakra.

Minato may have exaggerated a little, though. But it doesn’t matter. He has to keep his personal morale high or he won’t get anywhere.

-

And now, the moment he’s dreaded.

“Itsuki-kun, I’ll go open the door, so stay right here.”

Itsuki wants to get up and bolt into his room but unfortunately he can’t see where he’s going, he’s not too sure which chair of the dining table he’s on, and he doesn’t know his old house’s structure enough to know how to get around on his own.

Curse you, faulty time travel.

He still hasn’t figured out how or why he’s back here without his sight, but he can’t find time to rationalise the situation. Too much is going on around him-- he shouldn’t overcomplicate it.

His injuries from the last time-- did they carry over? Not precisely. His wounds were from shards of a pot. Light scratches and a miraculously decent concussion.

No, that couldn’t have ended in just a concussion. Did Itsuki die?

Is that it? He died, and so his spirit came back as a younger version of him? No, that wouldn’t make sense. Was there a seal spell on that pot that Itsuki had never seen?

(But if there was, Minato or Kakashi would’ve told him.)

(What if it was a seal inscribed into the clay work? Then Minato and Kakashi wouldn't notice it… and its shattered, too. It may have faded already. Ah, darn.)

“Itsuki?”

He flinches at the voice.

It’s a soft, mellow voice, with just a little hoarseness at the edge of every word. Warm, cold, and--

"O- Orochimaru!" He addresses the man with a squeak, then hastily tacked on, "...sensei!"

There's a moment of silence. He's dripping with cold sweat.

Why isn't anyone talking, is anyone actually in front of him? Is he looking in the right direction? (He looks down at Pakkun in his lap, holding it tight.) Or did he say it too early and Orochimaru didn't hear him?

_"Uh, Orochimaru-san, Itsuki-kun can't see you, so you should say something."_

“Eh? Ah, is that so…” wait, why did he sound so flustered? “Uhm, it has been a while, Itsuki.”

The confusion made his nerves lift slightly, and curiosity took over.

His image of Orochimaru, after many years had warped into one of a monster. A low, raspy voice, a hissing noise not unlike the ones he hears in his nightmares--

Was this really Orochimaru? Not being able to see his face might be the fault, but he really doesn’t sound anything like him at all.

He simply blinks-- and stares at the nothing that’s probably the general direction of Orochimaru, and he doesn’t say anything.

He extends his chakra.

The energy around him is prickly, like someone’s nervous.

He no longer has scales on his skin, so he couldn’t sense heartbeats anymore. But somehow, from the jittery pulse of chakra, he knows that someone’s heart is beating rapidly in this room.

_“Psst, Orochimaru-san, I think he’s confused, so you should say something else.”_

He can hear the flustered splutter Orochimaru makes, a disgraceful, very out-of-character _“huh, like what? I don’t-- Minato-kun--”_

And Itsuki laughs.

Because _what is this_. 

The great, serpent sage Orochimaru-dono is stumbling over his words like a nervous school girl? For the first time in his life, Itsuki wished he could see Orochimaru’s face right now.

(Even if something so deep and hot inside of him still screams and screams, _I hate you, I’ll never forgive you, you should_ ** _die_** \-- _)_

“Look, now he’s just laughing at you,” Minato sighed.

A hand is on Itsuki’s head now. It’s cold, but somehow, the touch is warm. Orochimaru’s hand is a little smaller and thinner than Minato’s-- that’s the only way he can really tell the difference.

For some reason, Itsuki doesn’t shove it away.

He lets it stay there, and closes his eyes to really take it in.

“Orochimaru-sensei,” the calling is strange on his tongue, and it takes effort just to say it out as it is-- but Itsuki says it anyway, “it has truly been a while since we’ve last met.” _Much longer than you think_. “I hope you have been doing well.”

He feels Orochimaru’s gaze on him, and although it doesn’t weigh with animosity, his fists tighten in wariness.

(It’s not him. It’s not _that_ him. He’s not trying to kill you. He’s not trying to kill you _anymore_. It’s the Orochimaru you loved. It’s the Orochimaru you _used to_ love.)

Minato and Kakashi’s chakra presence slowly leaves the room, but Itsuki knows they linger nearby. He lets Pakkun jump off his lap and trot away, though he's a little reluctant that his comfort animal is now tired of playing plush toy. 

He feels Orochimaru crouch down before him, hands held in his-- and he lets out a shaky breath. 

(He’s so close. He’s so close. He’s so close. He’s _too_ close.)

“I’m really sorry for all that, Itsuki, you must have been frightened,” Orochimaru says, and his voice is impossibly calm, “something must truly have gone wrong with the seal we tested out that night. It was my oversight, and I hope you can forgive me.”

... _Huh?_

A seal tested out the night before-- the night before of like, a few decades ago, right? No, Itsuki had absolutely no idea nor recollection of it. Understandable, since he had purged himself of all trauma-triggering memories anyways…

He wants to deny what Orochimaru said, because yeah maybe it’s not his fault at all and Itsuki should really tell him that-- but he can’t say it.

Because it really _is_ Orochimaru’s fault everything became like this. It’s his fault that Itsuki is blinded, broken, torn, and defenseless.

(Because Orochimaru ruins everything.)

“It’s okay,” he instead says. (What do you mean it’s okay? It’s not.) “Orochimaru-sensei had warned me about the dangers many times. It is my stubborn streak that caused this-- my eyes are a fair price to pay for this.”

(Why are you trying to reassure him?)

“I’m sorry that I cannot help you in furthering seal studies any more… at least, until I have completed my rehabilitation. I’m sure there will be ways for me to continue learning under your tutelage…”

“Don’t worry about that, Itsuki,” Orochimaru speaks over him, like a hasty father that can’t believe his son is being this utterly stupid, “focus on recovering, everything else comes later.”

Itsuki smiles back.

(Like hell you can talk anything about my priorities right now.)

Why was the voice in his head so hateful, he wonders. _Why was hi_ _s body such a pacifist_ , it argues back.

He feels Orochimaru’s fingers rub over his own, and it’s a little soothing despite everything. Cold fingers against warm fingers. The space in between them is just right.

“Can I really…” he mumbles, more to himself, “really still be your student?”

It meant so much more than Orochimaru heard.

(Can I still be the Itsuki that loves Orochimaru? Can I still be the Itsuki of the past, who simply headed on with a heart full of passion? Can I still be the Itsuki who went on doing exactly what he wanted to do, not thinking of the consequences because that was his ninja way?)

“Of course you can, Itsuki,” Orochimaru tells him, and a weight in his heart lifts even knowing the meaning wasn’t the same, “I wouldn’t lose you for anyone else.”

Orochimaru didn’t know _anything_. This Orochimaru didn’t _do_ anything to deserve what Itsuki is hating him for.

Itsuki’s dreamed of this. The day Orochimaru would just turn over a new leaf, coming back to him and to Anko like the man they both loved like a father. But a dream was a dream-- things like that didn’t happen in real life.

So he settled on despising him. He lived his life focused on revenge for the curse that corroded his body, each day he lived in chronic pain that fueled his desire for vengeance.

He was no better than the defected Uchiha Sasuke, and that was all Orochimaru’s fault. Everything about him was Orochimaru’s goddamn fault.

_(He hated him so much.)_

But he still loved his Orochimaru-sensei, and that was the undeniable truth.


	12. Chapter 12

“You’re getting pretty good at that.”

Itsuki sets himself in a one-armed handstand in the middle of the room. Breathing in strong, breathing out slow. A bead of sweat curls down his cheek, and his teeth grinds tight.

“Not good enough if,” he swings his legs back, and hops himself back upright with a sharp vault. Then he straightens, “not good enough if I didn’t notice you until you talked.”

He catches his breath, and lets his chakra expand again. It’s much easier now that he’s not upside down, but he’s still surprised by how close Kakashi felt.

“Here, a towel,” Kakashi shoves something soft at his chest, “you need help getting dressed or something?”

“Thanks,” Itsuki takes the towel gratefully, pressing it at the base of his neck, comforted by the warmth of the cloth against the cold sweat. “Just help me pick out my clothes?”

“Don’t ever say that to Obito,” Kakashi says immediately, though his voice is further-- so he’s walking toward the wardrobe-- “he’ll make you wear something atrocious and you wouldn’t even notice.”

Itsuki scoffs. “I trust you.”

“I wouldn’t trust myself, if I were you.”

A pause.

Wisely, Itsuki decides, “I think I’ll ask Minato-sensei instead.”

“I’m joking, geez,” there’s a clatter, and the sound of a door shutting. Then a fold of clothing are pushed into his hands. “You’ve only got like three sets of identical clothing, anyways, take it already.”

Itsuki sneers at the clothes he couldn’t see, “well thank the _lord_ for that.” Kakashi walks out in dry laughter, and Itsuki spits fondly, “you asshole.”

-

“Itsuki!” that was Anko’s voice, but she was probably too far away to be sensed, cause Itsuki had no idea where in the training ground was she--

“Kakashi-niisan, where-- Oomph!”

A weight crashes in from behind and he stumbles, landing facefirst on wet grass.

“You’re so weak!” Anko’s voice comes from behind-- on top of him-- _are you sitting on my back you miniature gremlin_ \-- and she laughs. “Orochimaru-sensei, did you see that?”

“Yes, I saw,” Orochimaru responds from a little further away. Itsuki’s fist tightens, but he manages to hold back the flinch this time. The shivers are still there, but less. Orochimaru adds a warning, “you should get off of him soon, Anko.”

“Okay!”

Training Ground Twenty-one was usually empty, cause it’s the training ground with the least amount of sunlight, and the ground was always damp. There were swamps and most of the trail was mud. Not muddy, just mud.

It was not ideal for Genin training, but this ground was necessary for landscape training and adapting to rainier countries… or something like that.

Orochimaru just liked this training ground because snakes loved dim and damp places. If he was going to train an army of little snake charmers, where else?

“Thanks for bringing him, Kakashi-kun,” Orochimaru addresses Kakashi, who hums in response.

Itsuki felt a shiver crawl up his spine for a slightly different reason. Like, who the heck is that nice-sounding man? Why is he speaking with Orochimaru’s voice? Why does he sound _nice_? Did he just use an _honorific_??

This situation is _beyond_ freaky.

“Then I’m going,” Kakashi says, setting a hand on Itsuki’s head and ruffling the hair twice.

“Ah-- say hi to Totobi and Rin-nee for me.”

“Toto _who_?” Kakashi retorts, “you’re getting infected by Anko.”

“Not anymore than I’m getting infected by you, so it should be okay.”

“Are you getting cheekier?”

“I’m always like this.”

“Right. See ya at home.”

“Don’t come over.”

Itsuki waves in his general direction, and Kakashi’s presence vanishes in a _shunshin_. There goes his main source of comfort. _Time to face the termites_ , he thought, and he turned back toward Orochimaru and Anko.

To begin with, what was Anko doing here?

She was always here to watch. Being an Academy student, she wasn’t allowed to be fully trained by Orochimaru yet, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t allowed to watch from a distance away and absorb what she could.

But now, there’s nothing worth watching.

(Oh well.)

“Since you’re having a hard time, let’s work on basic chakra control today, shall we?” Orochimaru said, “since you’re using your chakra to discern now, let’s see what that does to your tree walking and water treading.”

Itsuki pauses.

(Why would that be relevant?)

-

“I never thought I’d say this, but tree walking is a _bitch_.”

Anko bursts into laughter, and Orochimaru actually snorts.

“Well,” said teacher stopped to cough into his hand, but the laughing was still prominent in his voice, “well, you’ve always been exceptional in chakra control… but now that half of your chakra is preoccupied, and the other half is afflicted-- I suppose even _you_ would begin to have trouble.”

In his past life, tree-walking and water treading were as easy as breathing. He inherited chakra handling from his mother and learned how to knead it from young. Perhaps, if things had gone differently, Tsunade would’ve picked her up. She probably tried, actually, but Itsuki’s interests lay in a different direction.

Now that half his chakra is focused on expanding for sight, it’s like he’s always on a sensory mission. There’s very little chakra left for defense-- even then, he’d usually have a partner with him for that-- and even less for anything related to mobility.

Much more, his current chakra control is _shit_ in comparison to himself in the future.

 _He can’t even walk a tree_.

He groans. “I’ve got a looong way to go,” he mutters.

He feels someone sit down beside him. He doesn’t sense it-- he _feels_ it-- a warmth, and he hears the gentle fluttering of clothes as they sit down. _Ah, this was normal, wasn’t it? People didn’t need their eyes to see everything._

Sight was an important sense, but it was not everything.

A hand rests across his forehead, and even without looking, he knows Orochimaru is smiling.

Not the warped, insane sneer from the future, not the maddening, crazed grin that would forever be burned into his mind and haunt him in his dreams.

It’s a kind smile, gentle as the rain.

It’s _Orochimaru-sensei’s_ smile, the one that always leads him forward with a light push on his back. It’s the light that led him through his darkest days, a dream he wished would happen again.

(And it _is_ happening.)

He laughs a little. With mud under him and the very subtle breeze of petrichor through his nose, Itsuki thinks he can keep trying.

He can keep living in this dream, until the world takes it from him again.

(Ah,)

His eyes open, but nothing reflects. That’s too be expected, but something else takes him-- a very surprising train of thought.

He sits up, startled with the sudden, very dumb, very obvious realization.

(What if I change the future?)


	13. Chapter 13

“Itsuki-chaaaan!”

Itsuki opens the door to his house and gets hugged. He spends a very, very confused minute there, thinking _who_?

Anko is behind him, so the female voice isn’t hers. Orochimaru is also behind him, so the long hair he feels around his arms isn’t his, either.

_Who else-- ah._

“Wait, Kushina, don’t just run up and hug him, he’ll be startled,” why on earth is Minato in his house? Is his house the new hangout spot of the town? Get out already, it's been like _weeks_. “Itsuki-kun, that’s Kushina. She just came back from her mission.”

At this point, Itsuki is in the air. Kushina, she’s got the might of a gorilla or sum, just _lifts_ him off the ground like he’s a baby.

“Ohhh, my poor little Itsuki-chan, being left alone with Minato of all people.”

_Kushina_?? 

Oh right. Time travel.

“Kushina-nee,” he addresses, then he’s put down, and Kushina pats him on the head like she’s praising him. Or treating him like a kid, he’s not sure.

“I’m back!” Kushina says, and Itsuki jerks back because he doesn’t expect her voice to be an inch from his face. When did Kushina crouch down.

He jerks back, and he knocks into a pair of knees.

Orochimaru’s hands are on his shoulder when the man chastises the lady. “He’s unable to sense you well, Kushina. Do warn him before making sudden movements.”

And Kushina chuckles, sheepish.

Itsuki calms down to spread out his chakra again. Needing to do this every time is a bit of a hassle… and he feels it clearly.

Kakashi is furthest. Minato is a little closer, around where the dining table should be. Then Kushina-- and her chakra, once he touches it, makes him stiffen.

It’s strong.

And just a little, it burns. It’s not a hot burn-- it’s the kind of little prickle you feel when you take hot toast off a pan. Prickly, but contained.

Itsuki’s always linked the heat to Kushina’s warm personality.

But now that he remembers it in Naruto’s little antics, Itsuki can’t help but sense the connection between the orange wisps and the monster in her stomach.

“Kushina!” Anko cheers, “how was your dumb job?”

“It was dumb,” Kushina responds easily, her smile clear in her voice. She stands up, presumably to reach toward the table. “I brought home a souvenir for you.”

“No,” Minato immediately interrupts, “Kushina, you are _not_ giving her that vial of poison.”

“Poison?!” Anko and Itsuki say in unison, though one voice is significantly more terrified than the other.

“I’m interested,” Orochimaru says with a glimmer of mischief in his voice.

Itsuki turns around to tug at his clothes, “NO!”

The laugh it rubs out of the crowd is embarrassing, but Itsuki is still barking.

“Kushina-nee, don’t bring weird things into my house! Anko, I said yes to snakes, but no to the poisonous ones! Kushina-nee, stop encouraging her! She’s not a Genin yet!” Itsuki’s chakra spikes and she’s laughing in the general direction of wherever he hopes is right.

Kushina’s been laughing for a while, and Anko joins in.

If Itsuki could see, he would’ve seen the way Orochimaru and Minato share a relieved glance, smiling at the sight.

-

-

**“Itsuki.”**

**He stopped. Turning around, he picked his ANBU mask away from his face, a cold eye staring down at the girl before him.**

**“Anko,” he addresses.**

**They stood two trees away, on branches that were nearly the same height. But Itsuki was up higher.**

**Anko’s smile was weary, like she didn’t know how to confront him anymore. Looking away, her legs shuffled with discomfort.**

**“It’s been a while since you were back,” she started the conversation. “I heard from Sandaime-sama that you were free for a while, so… wanna catch up?”**

**Itsuki’s gaze on her is cold, and she recognizes that look.**

**His body is stiff, still, standing in such a farce of strong-- and Anko knows it’s anything but.**

**“Sorry, Anko. Can’t do today. How about tomor** **row?”**

**Shinobi need time to recuperate after missions. Mentally, physically, psychologically. It’s common sense to give them time if they ask for it, and Anko knew that.**

**“Promise?” Anko asked instead, sounding oddly like a child. She was a Jounin now. A TokuJou, even. Why was she acting so spoiled?**

**Itsuki’s eyes narrow-- not in scrutiny, but like he’s forcing something down inside. And he nodded. He didn’t give her another vocal answer, he just turned and jumped away.**

**He didn’t make two steps into his house before he fell into himself, curling up with a strangled sob.**

**The red scales on his back pulsed.**

**The agony never ended.**

-

“There’s no way to get the chakra coils in your eyes working again,” Hyuuga Hizashi tells him, “once severed, it never returns.”

Itsuki sighs. It’s not as if he was having any sliver of hope, but it’s still upsetting to have it be put into words like that.

It’s strange to feel his chakra again-- Hyuuga Hizashi, the late brother of the Hyuuga Clan head. Itsuki always looked at him fondly. He had his eye on the boy for his Sensory capabilities, but never reached in because he was not of the Hyuuga bloodline.

That apparently meant Hizashi often came by Itsuki’s training with snarky-sounding comparisons, only for Itsuki to pick up on a hidden critique and use it to further his skills.

(“Is he a Tsundere?!” Itsuki throws his hands up in defeat, pointing sharply at the man’s retreating figure. Genma laughs.)

Well, until he died an early death, that is.

Anyways, Itsuki bows down and thanks him for his input. If that was all the Hyuuga had to say, then he has no reason to remain here any longer. He excuses himself.

“Itsuki-kun,” Hizashi speaks up again when Itsuki is led out the door by a servant.

Itsuki turns around.

“A blind shinobi is a dead shinobi,” Hizashi tells him, and Itsuki feels an irritation boil in his stomach. “It’s a saying that goes down the line of Konohagakure, from the founders until today. Your mother wholeheartedly believed so as well.”

Itsuki doesn’t say anything. To deny or fight back would be impudent, and he wasn’t in the position or mental state to handle that kind of pressure.

And in a moment, he finds that his choice to abstain from his emotions is the right one.

“Remember, Itsuki,” Hizashi tells him, his voice strangely close. Itsuki feels a hand on his head, and a palm caress his cheek in a tender, fatherly way. “Even if you cannot see, never let yourself be blinded.”

Itsuki is left stunned when Hizashi walks back to his seat, not saying anything further.

He spends his night pondering upon the meaning of those words.


End file.
